


A Cabin (With No Roof and No Walls)

by convolutedConcussion



Category: Jurassic World Trilogy (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Mild Displays of Affection, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Sometimes Self Care is Writing Effective Communication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2019-09-05 11:17:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16809556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/convolutedConcussion/pseuds/convolutedConcussion
Summary: As Zia and Franklin help themselves, Owen brings Claire a slice of pepperoni with a wink and conversationally asks Maisie, “So, kid, what’s your poison?  Hawaiian?”With a look of disgust, she shakes her head, and Claire says, “He only orders it so he can have a whole pizza to himself.”“That’s unfortunate,” Franklin says as he takes a ravenous bite of pineapple pizza, which makes her choke on a laugh.





	A Cabin (With No Roof and No Walls)

Of the handful of cars that were still parked at the Lockwood estate, only two  _ weren’t _ crushed in some form or fashion—of the two that could feasibly be operated, one was unlocked. Claire and Maisie had watched Owen climb into the driver’s seat of the black sedan, check the center console, the glove compartment, and then finally the visors before crowing triumphantly (if disdainfully) and holding up a set of keys. Franklin and Maisie had been the first in the back seat—Zia hung back to give Claire a shoulder to lean into and helped her into the passenger seat. When Owen turned the key in the ignition, the car purred to life and he’d muttered something about rich people all being the same.

The next steps are a little hazy now—driving for a while, mumbling that they should find a place to crash for the night, realizing she still has her wallet. A CVS may have made an appearance. Pizza was ordered.

They find a hotel that’s just a step above ratty and get adjoining rooms, but everyone crams into one from the start—ostensibly, they’re watching  _ Die Hard _ , and no one talks about anything that just happened over the past few days. Before anyone can say much of anything, Franklin claims the shower, and Claire vaguely wrinkles her nose at the thought of showering just to get back into filthy clothes. Maisie curls up to her side—she’s so still it makes her nervous—Owen sits on the edge of the bed blocking her view of the TV, Zia’s collapsed bonelessly into the sole chair not made of plastic pretending to be wood. Absently, Claire cards through Maisie’s hair and ignores the deep, throbbing pain in her leg, the peripheral ache in the rest of her body. There’s this exhaustion weighing down every part of her, but she can’t find it in herself to push past the pain enough to sleep. In any case, she knows she will, some time probably soon, have to address the fact that whole wound matter. She feels like she’s dealt with plenty in the last few days, though—they all have. She’s not bleeding out. It can wait until after they eat.

In spite of not being able to drift off, her eyelids do droop and she takes the rest where she can. She’s not sure how long after, but there’s a knock on the door—it startles Maisie, who’s head pops up with a gasp.

“I’m sure it’s just the food,” she soothes as Franklin comes out of the bathroom with a cloud of steam.

As Owen stands, he jostles the mattress and she can’t fully swallow her pained grunt—he shoots her a look but otherwise stays silent. He checks the peephole first, and in the beat before he opens the door, the tension in the room is thick and heavy. But then his shoulders loosen and he opens the door and then there’s three large pizzas and more soda than any of them is gonna drink—somehow, some of the quiet anxiety that had built up between them all dissipates. As Zia and Franklin help themselves, Owen brings Claire a slice of pepperoni with a wink and conversationally asks Maisie, “So, kid, what’s your poison? Hawaiian?”

With a look of disgust, she shakes her head, and Claire says, “He only orders it so he can have a whole pizza to himself.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Franklin says as he takes a ravenous bite of pineapple pizza, which makes her choke on a laugh.

Owen grabs his chest and stumbles back a step as if shot before turning his attention back to Maisie. “So, cheese? Pepperoni? It better not be anchovies because I will  _ not _ have that kind of abomination under my roof.”

“Cheese,” she says decisively.

“ _ Excellent _ choice,” he responds gallantly as he hands her a slice on a napkin, then he grabs a slice for himself and pulls up a chair at Claire’s side. She’s distantly aware of the others finding seats and Zia flipping through channels—there’s only like twelve—but most of her attention is focused on him doing his level best to stare a hole in the side of her head.

“Yes?” she demands, low and only a little impatient.

“How’s the leg?” he asks, carefully gentle in that way he has that she doesn’t  _ want _ to love.

Thoughtfully, she looks down at her thigh. “I’d say it’s been better.”

Tilting his head as if to say  _ fair enough _ , he doesn’t press it any further—she knows where this is going, of course, but she’s honestly  _ way _ more interested in eating. She can’t remember the last time they ate, before the flight? Besides, Maisie hasn’t left their sides for more than the time it took to grab a few changes of clothes and a stuffed T-rex that made it out of the night alive, and she’s not certain she wants to drag the already overwhelmed kid to the ER. All she  _ really _ wants is to not have to think for a while—not have to  _ move _ , either.

For her part, Maisie eats  _ half _ a pizza on her own before passing out with the box in her lap and her head lodged up against Claire’s ribs—and even she feels like she could probably sleep, full enough and warm enough and exhausted enough to feel drowsy. She lets her head tilt back against the headboard and her eyes shut, and even movement next to her doesn’t get her to open them. Maybe, she thinks, if she  _ pretends _ to be sleeping, they won’t make her walk anywhere.

Not so.

“Claire,” Zia says quietly—when she looks, she’s hunched next to her and holding a first aid kit—and looks pointedly to her leg, “Lemme take a look.”

With a resigned sigh, she looks around quickly before her eyes land on the girl sleeping next to her. “Let’s go to the other room,” she tells Zia after a moment of thought. After being at rest for a couple hours and without adrenaline keeping her upright, her leg barely supports her weight—her knee starts to buckle, but then Owen’s got her, holds her up. Embarrassed, she grunts, “You should’ve taken a shower.”

“Yeah, you ain’t so fresh yourself,” he counters easily as they do this awkward three-legged shuffle to the next room.

“Thanks,” she huffs sardonically as he helps her into a chair, and she tries not to let on that she can still feel his hand on her side—it’s the sort of thing she should have gotten over by now, but between the dinosaurs and the kid and the constantly-being-on-the-verge-of-death, things got kind of… rekindled.

Once he’s gone, Zia looks between Claire and the partially-closed door, then cocks a brow at her that’s not  _ entirely _ judgmental. At her answering frown, she shrugs, points at the makeshift bandage wrapped around her thigh, and orders, “That. Off.” While Claire works at getting it untied, she crouches and opens the first aid kit. “Gonna take a stab and say you didn’t clean this.”

“You mean with the conveniently-located antiseptic? No, I forgot,” she says.

“The last few days have made you  _ real salty _ ,” she replies. “I don’t hate it.”

Claire’s smirk fades as soon as cloth pulls away from the ragged edges of her wound—she thinks she may actually go a little green, and her heart’s beating so hard she barely hears Zia’s quiet curse. It’s something else entirely to see it—she doesn’t feel quite as badass now that she’s looking at it, still oozing slightly, and feels like she’s gonna faint.

“This is gonna suck, okay?” she warns, holding up a bottle of saline—and it does, and she barely has a moment to brace herself before her  _ entire leg is on fire _ and frankly she thinks she shows great restraint in not actually screaming, although she does hiss a string of swears that make locker room talk seem tame. “Wow, okay,” Zia laughs, “Maybe if you’d talked like  _ that _ we coulda gotten more backers.”

“Funny.”

“You need to go to a hospital, Claire,” she says, suddenly very serious. “It’s not like I can MacGyver you some stitches—and if I  _ could _ , you’d lose the leg because there’s no way _ that’s _ sterile.”

“You’re probably right,” she concedes, watching Zia tape down gauze.

She stands and tucks her hands in her back pockets. “C’mon,” she offers, “Bet boyfriend’s already Google Mapsed the best route to the emergency room.” Claire rolls her eyes. “Is that why you never dated anyone seriously?” she asks, not really seeming to need an answer. “I mean, I guess I get it. Conceptually. In a straight girl, alpha male, airport harlequin novel fantasy way.”

Scoffing, she shakes her head, “You say that, but he cried like a baby when we watched  _ Moana _ . Which  _ he _ insisted we watch, by the way.” She bites her lip, hard, as Zia helps pull her to her feet and she does her level best to walk on her own power—she doesn’t  _ totally _ succeed, but it’s the thought that counts, right? “And the reason I never dated seriously,” she continues, “Is that every time I told someone what we did, they laughed in my face at  _ best _ .”

What impresses her most is that Zia is able to convey with her silence how little she believes her. Still, she lets her clutch her shoulder as she limps back next door where Franklin is nodding off sitting upright against the headboard of the bed closest to the door and Maisie is just where she left her. 

From where he’s sitting, Owen gives her this wry look and sucks his teeth before saying, “You  _ had _ to tell her about  _ Moana _ .”

“Oh, right, that door was open,” she replies, mock casual even though she feels herself flush.

“So, if you two are done flirting,” Zia interjects, “I am volunteering to watch the child if you would please, please go to the hospital before she gets an infection.”

“I don’t think that’s how that works but I guess you’re the doctor,” he says, frowning.

Claire trades Zia’s shoulder for Owen’s arm and gives him a  _ what’re you gonna do _ shrug—they’re nearly to the door when a small, sleepy voice pipe behind them, “Owen?”

If she’s honest, it’s kinda sweet the way he looks at her as if waiting for her to laugh, “Go.”

If she’s even  _ more _ honest, it’s kinda disgustingly heartwarming to watch him sit on the edge of the bed and hunch his shoulders a little—she can’t hear what he’s saying but she can see Maisie’s face drain of anxiety and fade from uncertainty to solemnity to smiling cautiously. She can’t really help the way her head tilts to the side and she tries  _ not _ to look so desperately taken by the whole interaction, and it really only takes a minute or two before he’s back at her side asking if she’s ready.

“What’d you say to her?” she asks as Owen hovers over her in the open car door.

“Told her Franklin would be too scared without  _ one _ of us and asked if she wanted to drive you,” he answers before looking pointedly at her seatbelt.

Once she straps in, he closes the door altogether too gently—and there’s a good two years of  _ mostly _ good memories in that gentleness that makes her forget that there’s a whole host of unaddressed issues that led to that whole breakup thing. That doesn’t mean she doesn’t watch him walk around the back of the car in the rearview mirror because she’s only human and even when she could barely tolerate him she went out with him for a reason.

“Get a good look?” he asks as he slides into the driver’s seat.

“Eh,” she says dismissively. “I think you’re losing your edge.”

His smirk is cocky as he leans his elbow on the center console and angles towards her. “If that’s what you need to tell yourself to cope with losing me, I guess that’s your cross to bear.”

Rolling her eyes, she starts, “For God’s sake, I didn’t  _ lose _ you, I told you to—” but then she sees his smirk widen to a grin and his shoulders start to shake and realizes she rose right to the bait. She clamps her lips around a smile that’s too fond and shakes her head. “Anyway, are we going to discuss the fact that you stole a child?” she redirects, tone affectedly impatient and scolding.

“How can you say that?” he demands, wounded. “You helped.”

He’s not  _ wrong _ exactly. “Are you planning on raising her in a cabin without a roof?” she probes. “Or walls?”

Instead of answering her—it’s not really the kind of thing that requires an answer, anyway—he hums thoughtfully and starts the car. They’ve spent too much time together and been through too much, especially recently, for her to mind the silence much—it doesn’t weigh heavily between them, she’s not uncomfortable, but maybe it’s just shock setting in late. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees his fingers flex, and once they hit a stoplight, she looks over to his face as he starts, “D’you ever think—” but the roads are empty and the light turns green too quickly and he cuts off with a too-hard, “Never mind.”

If she deflates and if the bubble of something worryingly close to hope had started to grow in her chest, he doesn’t really need to know.

The rest of the drive passes away without any more conversation. He flips on the radio, perhaps to actively discourage it, but she barely hears the music. When she can bring herself to look at him again, he’s frowning, but it’s more pensive than upset, and she has to bite back the urge to ask what he’s thinking about—it was never nothing, and she’s suddenly hit by the memory of having asked him once and his response being, simply and without clarification, “Support dogs for cheetahs, mostly.” Turning away, she lets herself smile, privately, this time. When they get to the ER, she hears herself comment on how busy it seems before her brain catches up with her mouth—he huffs, she lets out a laugh that’s too tight to be really genuine. If she leans into his side more than she needs to, her earnest defense is that they’ve had a few painfully long days and it’s more out of exhaustion than a need for him to support her.

“Let me guess,” the intake nurse says before either of them opens their mouths, “A dinosaur did it.”

After mechanically answering his questions, because she’s not actively bleeding out or dead yet, she and Owen are parked in the crowded waiting room. She tries several times to read a magazine, but, ultimately, she accepts that it’s a failed venture and tosses it back onto the table next to her. She turns her attention to Owen and wonders if she could get away with just… napping on his shoulder. She knows from experience it’s an excellent place to lay her head, particularly in situations like this—and she shoves away the thought about what kind of life she leads that this isn’t even that novel of an experience. He must catch on to her train of thought because he sighs and draws an arm around her, pulls her as close as she can get with an armrest between them, and it only kind of hurts because it feels a little bit like she’s a big walking bruise.

Not that she’d ever tell him, but she realizes as she rests her head on his chest that there’s a weird sort of comfort in the stale-sweat-smoke-sulfur-seawater smell of him. It’s grounding—it’s real, and it keeps her in that moment. It’s not  _ ideal _ , but it’s also not exactly repulsive. Her eyes are gritty, and she lets them fall shut and focuses on the sound of his steady breathing as the bustle around them fades into a background hum. Unthinkingly, she brings her hand up to his chest—might as well, as long as she’s taking liberties here.

“You really haven’t been seeing anyone?” he asks suddenly, and she’s weirdly flattered that he sounds baffled.

With a groan, she turns her face into his shirt and mutters helplessly, “Not seriously.”

“Was it because you printed out itineraries?” he teases.

“Seriously?” she demands. “There are apps for that.” His quick, one-note laugh is more gratifying than she’d ever tell him. “It’s just hard to find someone who has compatible life experience and—” she stops short of explaining that while some people thought lobbying for the protection of de-extinct creatures was  _ hilarious _ , others thought she was a monster for even having worked for Jurassic World, let alone the fact that she ran the place. “Anyway, don’t tell me  _ you _ haven’t run into the same problem.”

In spite of her best efforts, she really wants to know.

His shrug is slight enough not to jostle her but she feels it before he says, “It doesn’t come up much. I live in the middle of nowhere and I’m building a cabin.”

It’s  _ just _ enough of a non-answer to make her wonder, but she resolves not to ask any further. No use in poking the bear when she doesn’t have an actual plan—especially after she’s already kissed him—

She frowns. The analogy doesn’t make any sense.

“You know, that cabin’s gonna have a roof—walls, indoor plumbing,” he says slowly.

“Imagine that. Don’t tell me you’re gonna have electricity installed,” she gasps, anxious over where this is going, mostly because she’s realizing just how much she wants it.

“Outlets, lighting, even internet.”

She gives him an awed, if exaggerated, “Wow!”

She feels more than sees his nod. “And,” he hedges, “I mean, plenty of room.” It’s the kind of endearing uncertainty she doesn’t get to hear from him super often—he’s too self-assured and  _ way _ too proud to let on when he  _ isn’t _ sure—and she feels  _ something _ warm over it.

Sitting up, she tilts her head to one side just a little and even as the quiet, “Owen…” leaves her mouth, she knows it’s the wrong thing to say—his face goes distant and unconcerned before she can explain, and she sighs because he’s such a  _ man _ about things and it’s suddenly  _ much _ clearer why she got so fed up with him in the first place.

Of course, because life is just like that sometimes, that’s when she’s called back.

\--

When all’s said and done, there’s a big chunk of her thigh she just can’t feel, which is, frankly, a step up, but walking is a little weird when there’s a void in her leg. In the waiting room, she finds Owen right where she left him, shoulders slumped and sort of staring through an old copy of National Geographic. There’s a moment during which she thinks it may be simpler to just hobble back to the hotel herself—sure beats the conversation they’re about to have—but the anesthetic they used would probably wear off before she made it, and he’d probably swoop in to save the day, and they’d have to have that conversation anyway.

Claire expends most of her energy trying not to fall on her ass, and when he catches sight of her, he stands and asks, “Are you high? Did they give you the good stuff?”

“I think you know they did not,” she says dryly. Because he’s still looking a little stiff, she asks, “Do you think I could get a ride?”

“Only because I’m going the same direction.” He walks close but doesn’t touch her—it stings, but it’s not like she doesn’t understand  _ why _ .

Outside, she looks at the sky which probably isn’t the most solid plan she’s ever had, but she’s a little too deep in thought, in figuring out how exactly she’s going to start this—she stumbles a little when her toe catches on an uneven edge of asphalt and her hand flies out to grab his arm to keep from faceplanting. She cringes but doesn’t let go until they get to the car, and this time he doesn’t wait for her to buckle up before shutting the door.

“So, can we talk about this or are you just going to give me the cold shoulder?” she asks bluntly when he gets in.

His face just barely betrays his surprise. “What’s there to talk about? I made an offer, you said no, conversation over, right?” His voice is so neutral and unaffected that she wants to scream.

“Okay, first of all, you made an insinuation, which is barely in the same neighborhood as an offer,” she counters. “And I never said no. I said ‘Owen.’”

“Yeah, but I’m fluent in Claire and that ‘Owen’ was clearly a no,” he says.

Thinking that he’s  _ the _ most ridiculous person she’s ever met, she opts to play along with, “I think you’re a little rusty because that wasn’t a no, it was a…” She pauses to think. “It was a, ‘We just went through something totally  _ insane _ for the second time in our lives and I need a night’s sleep before I sign off on going to live in the wilderness with you! Especially since we were broken up not 72 hours ago.’” Never mind that they’re not technically on again.

For a worrying amount of time, he stares at her before he asks, this time with a tone somewhat less icy, “Is this about the van?”

“Watch the road, Owen,” she chides. After a bloated silence, she says, “It’s—you really don’t understand why I broke up with you.”

“Well, what you  _ said _ implied you didn’t want to live in a van and you had a problem with my lifestyle choices,” he replies defensively, eyes firmly set ahead.

“Fair enough.” With time lending her some distance, she can grudgingly admit that it’s not like she ever really explained what it was—she’s probably also just exhausted enough to not want to fight. “The van was just the final straw— _ you _ made all the decisions and I could follow behind you or I could—” she takes a deep breath, “I  _ felt _ like you just wanted me to follow along. I didn’t feel like you wanted or needed my input, and I was starting to feel a little bit like your replacement beta.”

“Oh, c’mon, Claire, you were n—”

“’Honey, I’m home, and I bought a couple acres up in the Sierra Nevadas! I’m gonna build a house!’” she interrupts, badly imitating his voice.

“Okay, first of all, I have never called you honey,” he says.

She waits to see if he’s got anything else, but when it’s clear he doesn’t, she bites her lip before, “The point is, you never asked me if I wanted to drop everything and come with you—doing the nomad thing had been fine until I started working towards my own goal, and then you just… made a decision without asking me—”

“What, if I could spend my own money?” he scoffs.

A moment later, they’re in front of the hotel but neither of them moves to leave the car.

“No,” she says. “You didn’t ask me if I wanted to come, you didn’t ask me what I wanted, and it felt like what I wanted didn’t matter. It just…” She sighs and stops.

“It just what?”

“It just seemed,” she says, looking at him very seriously, “That you would have been better served by adopting a dog and buying a fleshlight, because it didn’t feel like you wanted a girlfriend.”

His only response is a surprised, “Huh.” Until, that is, he gives her a lopsided smile and asks, “Is it inappropriate that it kinda turns me on when you say ‘fleshlight’?”

“In this context, I’d say yes,” she responds, feigning annoyance. 

After a moment, she reaches for the handle to let herself out because she is ready to collapse into bed for roughly twelve hours, but his hand on hers stops her, and he says, “Wait, I still don’t understand why you didn’t just say all this in the first place.”

She surprises her self with her own honesty when she answers, “Well, I told you to leave, and you called my bluff. I’m supposed to call you after all that? I still had my  _ pride _ .”

Snorting, he lets her go and pushes his way out of the car. He walks around to her side and pulls her to her feet, but they still don’t get any closer to going inside, and he’s doesn’t take a step back so they’re nearly chest-to-chest, and the way he’s looking at her is strange and she can’t read it. She waits for him to  _ say something _ , or, like, kiss her or something, but when he doesn’t she laughs just shy of nervously and asks, “What?”

“I never thought about how you felt,” he says, wincing, “I’m sorry.”

It’s her turn to let out a soft, baffled, “Huh.”

“And, for the record, I did— _ do _ want a girlfriend,” he continues. After a beat, he offers, “But I wouldn’t say no to  _ also _ adopting a dog and buying a—”

“Shut up,” she laughs, dropping her head into the space where his neck meets his shoulder and feeling his arms wrap around her automatically. “I still need to sleep on it,” she says carefully, looking back up, but he’s smiling crookedly, so she really didn’t need to worry.

It feels a little bit like he moves in slow motion when his hands cradle either side of her face and he surprises her again by pressing his lips to her temple. She squeezes her eyes shut and swallows the warmth rising in her chest, and the moment lasts longer than it probably should before he pulls back and tugs her along with a quiet, “Let’s get to sleeping, then.”

“You’re…” she trails off and follows him.

They enter the empty room and find the door joining to the next one over is still ajar, and as Claire sits on one of the beds and gingerly bends to work to get her shoes off, Owen goes to the door and peeks inside—there’s a faint glow, like the TV’s still on, but she can’t hear anything. When he turns to her and presses a finger to his lips, she rolls her eyes and tries to convey,  _ Oh, so now would be a bad time for hotel room karaoke?  _ with her face alone. Once her shoes are off, she wrestles with her bra and it’s actually the most amazing thing she’s ever felt, the moment she gets it off for the first time in a couple days. Her mood improves exponentially.

Owen leaves the door cracked, which she thinks is kinda sweet, and sits on the opposite bed to yank off his own boots and toss his socks into a forgotten corner of the room. There’s a moment when she considers just sleeping in her pants, and she really has to weigh the pros and cons and then realizes she’d rather die than continue to sit in more of these grimy clothes than absolutely necessary—struggling out of those is a little more difficult, and Owen watches her unhelpfully and looks like he’s trying really hard not to laugh, and she gives him the finger before she finally frees herself. As content as she’s gonna get without a shower and clean clothes, she leverages herself further onto the mattress until face is half-buried in the pillow and blindly reaches a hand out because there’s no way in  _ hell _ she’s going to be able to sleep with him across the room from her at this point, and she hears the sounds of clothes shifting and hitting the floor before he takes her hand and the mattress dips and his lips brush her knuckles and if she turns a little she can just barely make out his face in the dark.

“You know you’re gonna have the coolest scar when that heals, right?” he teases as his hand slides down her leg, stopping short of the barrier of the bandage.

“Then it’s all worth it,” she yawns.

It must not take her long to fall asleep (finally) because the next time she opens her eyes, daylight is streaming through the small space between the curtains and her head is on Owen’s chest and the steady beat of his heart could almost lull her back to sleep if not for the deep, pulsing ache in her thigh. When she lifts her head, she can see that Maisie found her way to his other side at some point in the night, and whatever she’s feeling in that moment overwhelms her. She doesn’t get much of an opportunity to figure out what exactly that is because she feels him wake up and she loses herself a little in the way he smiles up at her, still soft around the edges with sleep—then  _ he _ notices Maisie and says with some confusion, “Oh, there’s a kid in our bed.”

“Yeah,” she grins, “I hear that happens.”

His head falls back onto the pillow and she watches, propped up on an elbow, as he stifles a yawn with his fist. Distantly, she hears the shower in the next room start up, and she’s  _ just _ about to settle back into him when the door creaks open and she hears Franklin’s startled, “Hey—oh! Sorry, um, Zia told me to, and I’m quoting her here, ‘remind the happy family checkout is in three hours.’”

Fairly mortified, Claire’s forehead drops to the pillow as Owen laughs and she lets out a muffled, “Thanks, Franklin.”

She doesn’t really get a chance to get her bearings before Owen knocks a hard kiss into her lips—too quick, just there and gone, which is probably for the best since  _ there is a kid in their bed _ , but she’d be lying if she said it didn’t leave her wanting.

What she thinks is,  _ I really missed you _ . What she  _ says _ is, “Dibs on the shower.”

“Oh, c’mon!”

**Author's Note:**

> Ultimately, this has just been playing around in my head for... well, since the movie hit theaters. This is... very self-indulgent, and if you've read my work before, you know that that's my specialty. I just emphatically do not believe that the only problem Claire had was that she couldn't drive the van, but I also don't think that Owen was ever malicious. In my head, he's just been so used to doing whatever the hell he wants that he just... keeps doing that, forgetting that he's actually actively in a committed relationship.
> 
> Anyway, please feel free to comment and if you want to hear about how Jurassic World and Jurassic World Fallen Kingdom are my new forever girls, swing by my [Tumblr](http://johnisntevendead.tumblr.com). There may be more in the future, I haven't quite decided yet, but such is life.


End file.
